The Fate of the Esteemed Mr Wykahoo
by Alias III
Summary: One day, Voldemort wakes up in hell. And no, he bloody well does not want a sherbert lemon.


A/N: This is an odd little idea that popped into my head a month or two ago upon reading a completely unrelated fic. I admit this was quickly written, but that's typically the case with my humor pieces, and I think I may just belabor the point if I tinker with it too much.

The Fate of the Esteemed Mr. Wykahoo

Upon opening his eyes, Lord Voldemort found himself, the darkest wizard within a century on either side of his wicked, treacherous life, staring into the wide, brown eyes of a small girl. She had her face pressed eagerly against a plate of glass, watching him with her button nose and round, red cheeks lightly smushed, and her sticky hands trying to grip the flat surface. The Dark Lord blinked twice before the girl's face split into a gap-toothed grin, and she bounded away, the yellow ribbons in her hair flying behind, and shouting "Muthy! Fothy!"

Voldemort scrabbled for his wand, but found it missing. He glanced side to side, finding himself standing in an old dungeon with old books and potions ingredients to the right and a few torturous toys to the left. Straight ahead, though, was the plate of glass, taking up a full wall of the room seamlessly, and which looked out into a very strange hallway. It had a purple-and-blue floor that caught the light in a distintive manner he'd never seen before. The wall opposite was a soft cream color with a large sign. Voldemort could only make out the word "WYKAHOO" in bold, green writing, as well as "WARNING: Children beneath an age 10 may feel fear or threat in exhibit." Next to this oddly written warning was a very familiar symbol, the Dark Mark, complete with an animated snake that glared in every direction and hissing. The rest was too small to be read at a distance.

By the time these strange details had been catalogued, the grinning girl returned, dragging a woman by the hand and followed by a man. None of them wore robes. The little girl wore yellow shorts down to her knees and brown sandles that looked to be molded from one continuous piece of plastic. Her shirt was a pale orange, tight around the abdomen, but loose and full of ruffs around the shoulders and arms. The woman, assumably her mother, wore gray pants ending just above the ankle, blue shoes made out of a shimmering, thin materials and without laces, and a blue shirt similar in style to her daughters. The father's shirt was very tight, with a high collar but no sleeves, and his pants and shoes were similar to those of his wife. They looked like nothing Voldemort had ever seen.

"Right? He is awake!" the girl cried with a strange accent. "Hilo, Wykahoo!" She waved.

"Address him rightly," the mother answered.

"Hilo, Mr. Wykahoo!" the girl ammended, still waving.

"Who are you calling 'Wykahoo,' you little, Muggle toad?"

The girl giggled and peered up at her parents. "Tith! He talks laughy."

Voldemort strode toward the glass, but his feet stopped of their own accord a few inches from it. He couldn't get himself to move any further. He lifted his hand and threw an unfocused spell at the glass. A great, red spark flew from his finger tips, but disappeared before it hit.

The girl laughed. "Still!" she cried.

"Mark my words, Muggle, you will beg me to let you die when I've got out of here."

The girl frowned at him, but more out of confusion than fear. The parents looked more concerned.

"Go along, Andrea," said the father. "We may otherwise see Mr. Grindelwald."

"Fothy!" she whined.

"Hish, sweets, still we will come as they have a show," said the mother before ushering her daughter out of view.

"Would you like a lemon sherbert?"

The enraged reply on Voldemort's tongue died at that question, asked from the direction in which the Muggles had gone and by an all-too-familiar voice.

No.

Surely not?

What in the serpent's name was going on?

For the first time in a long time, the Dark Lord felt something akin to worry. Although, come to think of it, he couldn't remember how he'd come to be trapped in this cell. The last thing he'd known, he was working on a new journal to keep a part of him forever intact. And then he'd woken here. How...?

"Hello, Tom"

Voldemort whipped around, staring at a small, barred window in the dungeon wall between two bookcases. Twin half-moon glints of torch light flashed at him from between the bars.

No.

"Dumbledore," he answered coldly, calmly.

"I see they've finally got you up and working. I hear that journal of yours was tricky business. There was quite a lot of dark magic to fiddle with. I gave them what pointers I could from here to speed the process. I didn't want to deny the masses their access to the famous Wykahoo. Lemon sherbert?"

Voldemort threw another ball of raw magic at the window. It exploded specatularly, but when the sparks cleared, the wall and Dumbledore remained undisturbed.

"Shall I take that as a no?" Dumbledore asked.

"And what are you doing here?" Voldemort asked. "Have they penned you, as well?"

"Oh, no, I have a much greater access to the museum than you have. And I daresay, you're not going to gain the privilege like that. Do you mind if I come in?"

"Do as you like."

"Thank you." The Headmaster appeared through the wall like a ghost. He looked older than Voldemort remembered, a bit more bent and frail, and he walked with a cane. "Do you like the dungeon? It was my suggestion."

"What do you want?" Voldemort answered. He itched to go to the barred window and see what lay beyond it, but he'd never admit it or his confusion to the old fool before him.

"Still as direct as you were in school, I see. It always was a shame you could not be set in other directions, Tom."

"Do not call me by that filthy Muggle's name."

"Ah, yes, of course. You had preferred Wykahoo. I do forget these things at times."

"What is this 'Wykahoo' you and the Muggle scum keep using?" Voldemort had a stream of other questions, but he'd be damned if he asked them of Dumbledore. But he could at least glean a bit more if he kept the old fool talking.

"Why, that's you, dear boy. Wykahoo, the most evil wizard of the twentieth century."

"I am the Dark Lord Voldemort, flight of death, bringer of fear and pain."

"Oh, yes, that too, but that's all very archaic now, isn't it? First, you were Voldemort, then everyone was too afraid to call you that, so they started calling you You-Know-Who."

"But a small example of my power over weaker minds."

"Yes, yes, but after your fall, 'You-Know-Who' became an awful lot to write in the newspaper and in history books, and quite a mouthful to say."

Voldemort nearly cried, "After my _fall_?" but restrained himself. No, he would learn what tricks Dumbledore had in store.

"So people started calling you YKW. That was all well and good for print, but it's still quite a lot to say, with the W there. By the time of my death, you were widely known as YK-Who."

By the time of his death? Voldemort took a quick survey of his surroundings once more. He wanted to destroy something out of frustration, but dared not break his cool exterior. "How very fascinating," he drawled.

"Indeed. Over the last three and a half centuries, YK-Who eventually became Wykahoo. And so now, you struck such fear into the hearts of so many, that you are remembered as the most evil wizard of your time, the terrible Wykahoo. Quite splendid, isn't it?"

Three and a half centuries? Voldemort loathed the smile beneath Dumbledore's beard and that insufferable glint in his damnable blue eyes.

"A few years ago, archeologists found a journal you'd created, much like the one that unleashed the Basilisk a second time. They were quite eager to recreate you and study you, as they're doing now, I should note, but they did not want to tamper foolishly with dark magic. I say, wizards have learned quite a lot since you and I were alive. But they'd already developed this ingenous method with the Muggles-do you know that the wizarding world exposed themselves nearly a century ago? And that their ability to do so and lie in harmony with Muggles all stems back to your efforts nearly four hundred years ago? It's all very intriguing, the way one thing sets another in motion. It's really a great deal like-"

"Come to your point, old man."

"Patience, Tom-er, Wykahoo. We both have all the time in the world. Why, I remember when Andrea's mother used to come here as a young witch on summer holidays to ask me about secret passages out of the castle. Hogwarts is still standing, you know. They even have an exchange program with the Muggles for Muggles to learn about wizarding ways and wizards to learn about Muggle ways. It all encourages harmony between the two, when each better understands the other. A very remarkable world it is today.

"Anyway, to my point. With a mixture of Muggle technology and new forms of magic, they've devised a way to take any imprint a person leaves behind-mostly wizards, of course, though some recently deceased Muggles, as well-and project them as they once were. The magic fuses with the Muggle projection, giving a person a lifelike appearance. They set us all up in a museum, almost like portraits, only more intricate. If you behave, they'll program the computers to allow more access to the building. The former headmasters of Hogwarts have formed a club of sorts. It's really quite lovely to meet every week for tea and discuss the concerns of our day. On holidays, the current headmaster will join us. It's quite wonderful. If you would like, I could suggest to the twentieth century witches and wizards that we hold our get togethers in here until you have earned your privileges. I know Harry was quite interested by your arrival."

"Potter?" Voldemort demanded.

"Oh, yes. He's quite a lot older than you remember, though, of course. He only lived to one hundred and twenty-seven. Defeating you took quite a lot out of him."

"Potter killed me?" The question left his mouth before he could stop it.

"Killed you? No, not at all. He merely defeated you and all that you stood for. No, I believe it was a small, Muggle boy that killed you when you tried to possess his dog, back in 2001. The boy didn't understand, of course, that the shrivelled, little creature trying to take his dog's body was actually the last remains of the most evil wizard of the previous century when he beat you to death with a cricket bat. Boys can be quite attached to their pets, you know.

"So now, here you are, a shadow of yourself for the education of the many children of the world. I can think of no more fulfilling way to spend eternity."

Before Voldemort could reply, a clock chimed in the room beyond the barred window, and a Phoenix trilled, making the dark wizard flinch.

"Ah, it's time for my daily magic lesson. I'll invite you to tea on Saturday, and we can fill you in on the rest."

Dumbledore disappeared back through the wall as the hall outside filled with small children. One of them shrieked in delight and pointed at him, and then all the rest had their small noses pressed against the glass, all shouting "Wykahoo! Mr. Wykahoo! Hilo, Wykahoo!"

Many people in other parts of the musuem stopped and looked around to figure out who had let out such a horrible scream of frustration and agony.


End file.
